Our life once felt like a dream. Richard and I had two wonderful kids, Ellie and Max, and a home filled with joy. Ellie, 12, was curious and chatty, while Max, 8, followed her everywhere, soaking up her words. Weekends meant soccer games, and evenings were for movie nights or beach trips where the kids built sandcastles. Richard called it our sitcom life, and it truly was. But then, small signs appeared—Ellie was always tired, her legs aching. We thought it was just growing up, but bruises started showing on her arms, unexplained. “I didn’t bump anything,” she’d say, puzzled. Richard and I brushed it off as normal kid stuff, but worry crept in. A doctor’s visit turned our world upside down.
Tests piled up—blood work, scans, a bone marrow biopsy. Each step felt like sinking into a bad dream. The diagnosis hit like a storm: acute lymphoblastic leukemia. “Will I be okay?” Ellie asked, her voice small. “Yes,” I promised, holding her hand. We fought hard. Hospital rooms replaced our home, chemo took over soccer, and Ellie’s hair fell out. She called herself a warrior, posing like a superhero in her hospital bed. Richard was her rock, sleeping in stiff chairs and making her laugh. Max visited daily, squeezing into her bed for movies. “We’re still us,” Richard would say. For eight months, we clung to hope, cheering Ellie’s small wins, but cancer was relentless. One March morning, with sunlight soft through the window, Ellie slipped away, leaving us broken.
Grief tore at us. Richard buried himself in work, Max hid in his room, and I struggled to breathe each day. Ellie’s absence silenced our home. Then I noticed Max’s odd habit. Every evening, he’d stand at the back door, waving into the yard with a quiet smile. At first, I thought it was a kid’s quirk, a way to cope. But after days, I asked, “Who’re you waving to, Max?” He answered, “Ellie.” My heart sank. “She’s not here, honey.” He looked at me, sure. “She is. By the treehouse.” Chills ran through me—he wasn’t playing. That night, I checked our security camera footage, hands trembling. At 6:30 p.m., Max waved, and near the treehouse, a figure moved—a girl, Ellie’s height, in her favorite purple sweater, waving back. My breath stopped. Was it grief tricking me?
I watched the clip over and over, the figure unmistakable. The next evening, I sat with Max by the window. “Is it really Ellie?” I asked. He nodded. “She’s there every night.” He led me to the treehouse, whispering, “This was our special place. Ellie said she’d always be here if I waved.” Tears fell as he said, “She promised dying isn’t forever—it’s just different.” A rustle came from the shadows, and I nearly collapsed, thinking it was Ellie. Instead, a girl stepped out—Ava, Ellie’s school friend, in the purple sweater. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Ellie asked me to come here for Max, to make him feel safe.” She explained Ellie gave her the sweater to remember her. I broke down, crying on the grass, Max hugging me. Ava joined us, tears falling, saying Ellie wanted Max protected.
Now, every evening, Richard, Max, and I visit the treehouse, sometimes with Ava. We wave to the sky, share Ellie’s stories, and feel her light. Grief still lingers, but it’s softer now, like carrying a treasure. Max waves, and so do I, knowing Ellie’s love stays with us, different but forever.
